


To Rebuild

by sailorkade



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Lesbian pining, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, haru has depression, more tags added as i continue, most of the PTs have ptsd or some sort of post-canon anxiety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-02-13 15:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21496546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailorkade/pseuds/sailorkade
Summary: You can't take down the physical manifestation of Tokyo's desires without facing some sort of repercussion. Haru's unfortunate reality is that it has to be her.Two years have passed since the fall of the Metaverse, and this is her new normal and attempts to rebuild what was lost.
Relationships: Akechi Goro & Kurusu Akira, Niijima Makoto & Okumura Haru, Niijima Makoto/Okumura Haru
Kudos: 31





	1. Thirteen

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first posted fic on here, it's a Haru centric fix with slowburn MakoHaru and plenty of post-canon healing. You can't watch countless people die, see a teammate shoot himself in a boiler room, and watch your father experience a mental shutdown without some type of trauma cropping up afterward. Persona 5 just made it seem like nothing from the Metaverse affected them, but this is a group of teenagers we're talking about.
> 
> The first chapter is,,, pretty sad. She's lost herself and this is the start of her trying to pick up the pieces.

_"Pull me out_  
_Pull me out_  
_Can't you stop this all from happening?_  
_Close the doors and keep them out"_

__

_-Thirteen, The Antlers_

There’s a pounding in her ears, blood thrumming in her veins, making its way to her head, threatening her ear drums with the risk of them bursting. The contents of her mind would leak out as if the dam built up in her brain finally let go, crumbling against a river of thoughts. Her throat is closing, the dryness causing her to cough loudly in the once peaceful silence of three in the morning. Before she knows it, she’s throwing the blankets off her body in a rush, eyes blinking rapidly, trying to get a sense of her surroundings. Her eyes try to adjust to the pitch black as she scrambles blindly, hands reaching towards the bedside table. With a click, the lamp is on, shining a deep yellow light around her.

She’s drenched in sweat, dark spots growing on the silk sheets below her. As she sits up, her soft pink nightgown is now sticking uncomfortably to her skin, adding another stressful stimulus to the ever-growing list. 

Feet slip down from the bed. A single glance tells her that she forgot her slippers downstairs after dinner, right before making the trek up for a shower. _A shower that means nothing now._ She grimaces, peeling the front of the dampened garment from her chest before finally settling her feet on the cold hardwood. 

She winces but rises, practicing a breathing exercise taught to her by a close friend (“We’re all going to need this, better to learn it now than suffer later.”) as she stumbles about the dimly lit room. She avoids the vanity, covered with a floral sheet that is starting to grey due to a thin layer of dust. The maids don’t question it anymore, don’t touch it or try to clean it, less they face the wrath of the queen.  
But she wouldn’t be angry, wishes they knew that, wishes they knew she wasn’t _him_.

Instead she thanks a baseless god for the lack of explanations she’s had to give. If the sheet were removed, she would catch one glimpse and then be drawn in. Sitting down and staring mindlessly into nothingness, emptiness, an abyss she didn’t really understand. She dealt with that a month after everything ended, not again. It’s not like it mattered, makeup was useless pastime when you couldn’t see the result. 

The door creaks, a noise that makes the pounding in her eardrums grow louder. Curses the old house, perfect in every way but incapable of escaping the ever-threatening presence of time. Wood settles, paint chips, maids and maintenance try to fix what they can see, but with something so big, who could blame them if they missed a few spots? Especially the room of a queen who has fallen from her throne.

Peaking across the hall, she slips out the room, trailing along as she brushes her fingers against the smooth paint gracing the walls around her. Picture frames hang all around her, grown obsolete in the absence of pictures. She’s removed all evidence of her existence from her precious castle, as if she were just a ghost left to haunt her biggest nightmare. Her nightmare being the other person who stood beside her in the images, just a glimpse would cause her to spiral. It was easier to just tuck them in storage, hidden deep within dusty books that she rid the home of upon his passing. Bedtime stories now holding memories of a happier time seems bittersweet, but some things from the past belong together.

Luckily, there is no lone maid patrolling around the hallway to apprehend her panic attack. She knows they worry, knows that they whisper when she walks down to the kitchen after not awakening until two in the afternoon, knows that they wonder when she’ll finally get a grasp on herself. She wonders too.

The bathroom door isn’t that far, but the walk feels like a 5k marathon, leaving her gasping for breath. Is it the activity or the panic that grips her lungs, closes her throat, and refuses to let valuable oxygen enter? She pauses to lean against the door frame, bracing for a moment before stumbling onto the tile. It’s freezing, stinging her bare feet and risking the terrifying fate of frostbite. But it’s just a wolf in sheep’s clothing; she isn’t in danger of her appendages dropping off from lack of circulation. Things are just too much, even the simplicity of a cool tile flooring, chilled from a cracked window that a maid accidentally left open to air out the sharp scent of cleaning chemicals.

The vanity in the bathroom is large, sweeping across the entirety of the wall with a matching mirror. There was no sheet big enough to cover it. The queen knows this, knows that she usually turns off the lights, squeezes her eyes close until it hurts, emotionless tears dripping from the corners as she stands and lets the water rain down on her as hot as she can manage.  
But tonight is different.

She avoids looking up, eyes set straight on the ground, counting tiles as she ambles forward to close the window. The feeling of the glass against her fingers is sharp, painful with the cold of winter seeping into her bones. Everything is so cold, she doesn’t know the last time she felt the warmth of sunshine, summer, and beach trips with those closest to her heart. It’s been like this for two years, it’s the new normal. 

She knocks into the knob of a drawer, eyes shooting up as she realizes her fallacy with a small curse. Never loud enough for any eavesdropping maids to hear, it’s unladylike for a queen to say such foul language, not like she could dampen her image even more. Her hands fumble with the knob, drawing it forward and grasping for a small white bottle. The rattle of the contents inside is louder than expected, causing a wince and the blood to begin drumming again as if it were a hundred-piece percussion symphony. But she manages, rolling the cap between her palm, pulling it off and letting a white pill rest on her tongue. Before the bitter taste can dissolve into her taste buds, she’s already gulping down water from a cupped hand, leaving the faucet of the sink dripping slightly.

More staring at her hands gripping the vanity rather than looking up, more breathing exercises while his soothing voice echoes in her mind, more fidgeting of her feet against the cold tiles, cursing herself for forgetting such a vital item such as slippers downstairs. Stimulus needs to be muffled, everything needs to be like a stereo system that can be set on the lowest volume, no bass, no treble, no reverb.  
Minutes that feels like hours pass, her grip loosens, and her eyelids are growing heavy. Color begins to reappear on knuckles that were a stark white just moments before. Wringing out her hands, she glances up, the light is on this time. There’s no pressing her eyes closed until the moment the water shuts off and she’s hurrying out the door in nothing but a towel. It’s time to stop running, even if it’s just for one small breath of time at three in the morning. 

Her hands stroke through once vibrant, caramel brown hair. Fingers get caught on a tangled curl, tugging it free causes a wince of pain to shake through her, but it’s good. It’s grounding. A feeling that isn’t just cold snaking its way under her skin and freezing all her organs to a startling stop. It’s longer now, tickling her shoulders with split ends. She reaches towards a small stand holding accessories and pulls a hair band on her wrist with plastic cartoon pandas attached. A gift from a friend from what feels like an eternity ago but was likely two weeks prior. Time doesn’t make sense anymore, nor does it matter when you only leave bed for meetings with the palace council and to put something in your stomach before it caves in on itself. 

Her hands are grabbing at her hair, pulling it into a short but tight knot behind her head. The tightness of its grip pulls at her scalp, but at least now she can get a good look, to stop hiding behind a floral sheet. 

Her face is gaunt, cheeks sunken in just the slightest below her cheekbones. There are fading freckles that dot the bridge of her nose, the delicate apples of her cheeks, once hidden behind layers of concealer due to the bright summer sun darkening them on a fairly eventful class trip overseas (“I think they’re beautiful,” a soft voice echoes somewhere already lost.). Another change is that she’s older, face less round and more angular in the jaw. Her eyes are dull, lacking the twinkle of an excited teenager on a wild adventure with her friends, instead being replaced with a grey film that resembled a tired, overworked factory worker. 

The comparison was a mistake, bile rising to her throat. She spits once in the sink, filling her pressed-together palms with more water, letting it rush down her throat to soothe the burn before it turns worse. It’s time to stop hiding.

Sometimes it’s only yellow that she sees. A striking color that she assumes her irises took on during her Awakening. It’s not like she’d really have a reference besides the glow of her father’s and Sae’s during their palaces, she was too late to see the others’ awakenings. Always too late, always too far along to save others from their fall from grace. 

The yellow is a reminder of what’s gone, a piece of her soul, a piece of rebellion that was there for her. Power, absolute power and strength. Now only despair has replaced it. 

She doesn’t remember the trek back to her room until she’s curled up in her bed, the plush mattress pressing against her back as she scrolls through a phone of the latest model. Of course it is, of course the council wouldn’t leave her with any less. But does she even deserve their mercy? Does she deserve a luxury where others collapsed from exhaustion, never to rise, on land that is now under her name?  
She avoids social media, instead just dragging her thumb across the screen, reading the words of a small, cheesy romance novel that she’s been trying to push through for the last month. It’s too early to start getting ready, to get a meal to sustain her the rest of the day, but too late to go back to sleep, lest she risk appearing like a zombie in front of the council. Not like it’s much different from how she normally is, but after being reprimanded lightly from a maid following the last meeting, she’s been more conscious towards that sort of thing.

Nothing processes in her brain before she settles her phone down beside her, realizing that she’s reread the same paragraph five times without retaining a single word. A pause. She grabs her phone against, pressing a thumb clumsily to the bottom of the screen, unlocking it before she begins to scroll through a small list of phone numbers, contacts of her closest friends and business partners. Council members and confidants of the queen.

Her thumb hovers hesitantly over one name, followed by little emoticons of a panda and a purple heart. There’s a gentle longing in her heart, a hand reaching out from inside her to try to grasp at a connection that she’s be actively tearing down without meaning to. Her eyes glance to the window where the curtains shift lazily with the breeze of an AC unit connected below. The sky is pitch black, and with that realization is when her decision is made.

She quickly thumbs back up to the top of her contacts, pausing momentarily before pressing a bright green call button. There are a few moments of repetition of the ring, buzzing in her ear at an irritating volume. She accidentally brought the stereo dial to a five with the phone instead of a calming one, something that would’ve punished her if she hadn’t already had her nightly panic attack.  
“Hello?” Echoes into her head, interrupting the rumble of thoughts like the slicing of an axe. Ironic.

Her mouth opens, but instead of words, the cold air seeps in, drying out her tongue and throat. It feels like sandpaper grinding against her vocal cords, keeping her from spilling out the river of thoughts. The dam already broke earlier but there is nowhere for it to go, the dryness of her throat soaking them up like a sponge, never to reach her mouth and to the ears of the person on the other end.  
“Haru?” A tired voice repeats, this startles her, she self-consciously twirls a finger through the end of her hair. Yes, that’s her. That’s her name, though it sounds like the calling of a stranger, a shadow of what once was. 

“Hi,” she murmurs, voice like gravel. Haru politely coughs into her elbow, clearing out the phlegm like a good, courteous queen would. “Akira-kun.” 

There’s a yawn on the other side, very quiet but noticeable. She’s warily looking at the vintage, analog clock next to her bed. The yellow light from the lamp illuminating the hands, showing it to be almost four in the morning. Time had gotten away from her. 

There was a pause on the other end, she realized he was giving her a moment to collect herself, to explain the issue. To try to explain why any sane person would call someone else at four in the morning, just an hour until the sun rises. 

“It, ah…” Haru pulls the phone from her mouth, holding her other hand against the mic as she exhales deeply. Her nightgown is still damp, she really should’ve changed out of it during her moment of life-questioning and self-discovery, also known as a visit to the bathroom to ride out her panic attack.

“It happened again,” she draws the phone back towards her, lips close to the receiver.

There’s rustling on the other side, covers being pushed to the side she assumes. There’s a disheartened “mrow” that can barely be heard, if she were to breathe in that moment, she would’ve missed it. Her heart twists and tugs inside of her. Not only had Haru disturbed one person from their peaceful slumber with her nightly ramblings and anxiety, but two. 

“Let’s breathe, okay?” The voice is distorted, but still too kind, too warm, desperately trying to overcome the chill and thaw out her insides. Before she knows it, he’s running through the motions with her, counting, holding, releasing. It takes a few minutes, but her heartrate is down to a calming level, the panic attack from earlier finally making its leave with the anxiety built up inside of her. “Better?” He asks from the other side.

He feels far off, a world away, though she knows he’s only a short train ride and a small five-minute walk from the station. Haru is tired. She’s so tired and her eyelids are betraying her, fluttering lightly as the gentle breathing coming from the speakers soothes her. “Yes,” she murmurs. “Very much so.”

She can almost see his smile on the other end. “Do you want to talk about what set it off this time?” His sleepy voice prods at her, trying to coax out the inevitable.

“Gunshots,” Haru explains in a frail, shaky voice. “In my dream of course, but… He was there.” She’s explaining, but not straightforward, not explaining of the “he” is Father or _him_. Akira knows. She knows that he knows and that’s good enough.

Guns use to be her specialty in the Metaverse and Palaces, her careful eye and quick reactions lead to her being an expert shot. But it feels tainted ever since the revelation in the boiler room, that the gunshot she thought she just imagined upon leaving Father’s Palace was a reality. An end to the reign of the King. 

There’s a thoughtful hum. Akira is thinking through his words. Haru thanks him silently, he always knows what to say, always takes time to pick out the right words, doesn’t overstep or tread on the fragile land that is Haru’s heart. One wrong word could set her off, not in anger but in despair and self-doubt. 

“You’re okay,” he assures her, voice getting smoother and gaining confidence the more he wakes up from the disturbance of sleep. That’s their Joker. “Just remember we’re never going to experience something like that again. What’s in the past is over, and we’re never going to hear things like that or see things like that, yeah?” The final word lifts at the end, ever hopeful in Haru’s time of need.

She has a gentle smile set on her face before she even realizes what is happening. She touches it lightly with dry hands, lips feeling chapped, yet a glow set deep in her heart. “Yeah,” Haru responds, bringing the hand back down to lay limp in her lap. “Never again.”

They’re chatting amongst themselves afterward, Haru instigating a change of subject by asking Akira what classes he has in the morning. Lucky for her, they’re all in the afternoon, scheduled that way so Boss could have a morning with Futaba twice a week while Akira watches over LeBlanc. 

Before she has a second to say goodnight, she pauses against. Akira notices the gap in conversation and stays quiet, listening expectantly and politely for Haru to continue. With a new sense of calm and confidence, she’s inhaling deeply again, preparing. 

“You know how you cut your own hair when it gets too long?” She doesn’t give him a chance to respond before she’s speaking again. “I need some help. Maybe tomorrow evening after your classes and my meeting with my advisers?”

It takes a few moments of silence for her to assume Akira is processing that “some help” means going at her long, tangled hair with a pair of greedy scissors.

She doesn’t answer his question afterward on why she wants him to do it. Haru knows that she can’t face the others yet, not after a week of radio silence. Yes, she’s been on the spiral downward for the past two years, but she has never abstained from contact for longer than a day or two. Now a week has passed, a week ignoring texts from the name followed by panda emoticons, a week ignoring an endlessly ringing phone, a week letting the final string snap that has held together a dying friendship. 

“No problem then,” Akira confirms to her delicately, there’s a soft rumbling coming from the speaker, an indication of a purring Mona laying in his lap, drifting back after an interrupted snooze. “I’ve got you, Haru.”

There’s a cool metal scraping lightly against the skin on the back of her neck. She’s curled in on herself, wrapped in an overly soft towel, watching as tendrils of brown fall into the tub. The extra layer from the towel is comforting, like a small shield protecting her from the outside world. It’s a fleeting feeling however, as in the next minute the cutting is over, and a trivial weight on her head has lessened.

Her knees creak as she rises, wincing a little at the stretch after she’s been cramped up for nearly thirty minutes. She didn’t think there were so many tangles and mats lodged deep into her curls, but Akira was there to prove her wrong, continuously snipping away a year’s worth of neglect. He holds out a hand for her. It’s far too warm, far too soft and kind, hands slightly callused most likely from constant use of a pen in class and meticulous cafe work at LeBlanc. 

Haru steps over the wall of the tub and settles herself down on a plush stool by the bathroom vanity. She keeps the towel wrapped tightly around her, shivering slightly from a few steps on the frosty tile. The window was left cracked again; the bathroom freshly cleaned for the second time in just a day. It seems as if her late night breakdown wasn’t entirely unnoticed. The maids have eyes like a hawk, always watching.

The younger man is kneeling by the tub on dark, worn blue jeans. They fit more loosely than Haru remembers, signifying the decline of muscle mass. Daily excursions to the Metaverse always kept them all in peak shape, even Haru noticed the definition in her arms and legs. Muscles allowed her to stride bravely across Palace terrains, tearing down Shadows left and right without a care in the world. But now there’s no Metaverse, no Shadows to curl around the minds of the people around her, dragging them into their selfish desires. This should be a happy occurrence, a grace towards mankind. But instead, she just feels empty.

He’s scooping up the longer pieces into his hand, bringing them towards the trashcan on the other side of the bathroom. The smaller pieces that don’t threaten to clog the drain are swirled down with a turn of the faucet. He’s on his feet again, wiping stray drops of water onto his jeans as his hand gently rests on Haru’s shoulder. She’s startled from her thoughts again, eyes trailing up to meet his as he slowly turns her in the stool to face the mirror.

Fingers begin to feather through her hair, she’s pulling her hand through without much thought, releasing a few stray pieces leftover from the trim. Where her hair was once brushing against her shoulders is now just a few centimeters above her chin. Shorter than she usually had had it a year prior, but not unwelcome.

Haru exhales a breath she didn’t realize she was still holding deep in her chest. A weight has been released, physically and metaphorically. While her head sure is lighter, it also signifies a piece of herself that’s she’s been holding on far too long. A piece full of desertion of her appearance, her pride, a lack of care for how she looked and felt.

It’s a simple change, but one in the right direction at that.

“It’s a little shorter than intended,” he’s speaking a little sheepishly, hand going to rub at his neck, a nervous tick developed long ago. “There were just a lot of tangles and breakage… That sort of thing. I know I’m not the best at it but-”

“It looks great.” Haru is smiling at him, eyes sparkling a little, bringing light to what was once glazed with grey. 

They clean up the area, tossing the towel into the laundry and avoiding prying eyes of maids as they head down the stairs into the dining area. The house is far too large, far too open and empty, yet they always seem to be watching her carefully, scrutinizing her every move. She can practically hear their hushed whispers amongst each other, questioning Haru’s sanity due to bringing a teenage boy upstairs. How dare she taint the Okumura name, violating the privacy of the home and her image with a commoner to whom she isn’t engaged?

But she doesn’t heed them any mind. Akira is a friend, a best friend, nothing more than that. Their bond was close, him being a sole confidant in her time of need, when facing all the others was a task too daunting for Haru to undertake. It’s not like she isn’t at the age of twenty now, with Akira just being a year her junior, anyways. 

She was their senior, supposed to be a shining symbol of leadership for them to look up to. She was supposed to be a good influence, encouraging others to take their college entrance exams. However, she never even sat down and did it herself; a business prematurely fell onto her shoulders. The rest of the time had her being pushed around by The Council, just a figurehead queen, pretending to be a leader while the others tugged on her puppet strings.

Now her past friends further their futures at a college, while she’s trapped at the top of a company she never wanted to own. 

They settle themselves at an overly large dining table, solid oak and formidable to any passerby. The lights are dimmed, but Akira doesn’t seem to mind, and if he does, he doesn’t mention it. Haru appreciates that, sometimes the fluorescents are far too striking and overwhelms her after hours trapped in a pitch-black room. 

He pulls out a notebook from the black messenger back he has draped over the arm of the wooden chair. While he sets up his studies, black pen held loosely as he twirls it between his fingers, the maids and butlers are bustling in. 

With a very fancy white floral kettle in hand, they place down dainty teacups on pink doilies that are slid into place. Haru stares as the teacups are filled with a dark, pungent coffee rather than a refreshing afternoon tea. Her face grows hot, knowing that the maids did this for her, it’s her favorite brew. Expensive of course, but flavorful and mild, not too bitter for her tastes. One of them smiles down as she finishes filling up Akira’s cup, eyes knowing as Haru’s meets with hers, glancing towards her hair and then back. There’s a gentle nod among them and the room is emptied until only Akira and Haru remain.

The raven-haired teen lifts his coffee, smirking slightly as he clinks it with Haru’s matching porcelain teacup. They each gingerly sip, slowly to avoid the piping hot liquid from burning their tongues. Haru relishes in the taste, calm instantly smoothing over her, warmth pulling into the pit of her stomach as she swallows each gulp.

Akira is back to his notebook, going over what looks to be test questions for his class tomorrow. Unlike today, it’s an early morning one, one that Haru knows he stresses over due to it being vital towards his major. She sits silently, staring out the window in the dining room at the setting sun. The sky is an array of pinks, oranges, and reds. She can’t remember the last time she watched a sunset and wasn’t stowed away in her room with the curtains tightly drawn. It feels nice, feels peaceful, to be able to enjoy the silence with her companion as he diligently works on his studies. 

“Have you visited him lately?” She breaks the peace, releasing the question that had been building up inside her for days, knowing it would be brought up the moment she called him last night. It’s a new feeling that’s bubbling inside, it is apprehension mixed with a sense of pride. She hasn’t been able to mention him in months, the grief and uncertainty building up until just his name felt like poison on her tongue. Just subtly referencing him has filled her with more dignity than it should.

Akira pauses between sips, turning to follow Haru’s gaze towards the sunset gleaming from the window. The pen slows its twirling between his long, lithe fingers. He’s clutching it tightly once it stops movement, pursing his lips slightly. Haru’s eyes flitter from him and back to the window, not wanting to stare, but catching each change in his body language.

He releases the pen, pulling his hands into his lap, leg bouncing slightly. “He’s refused to attend anymore visitations,” Akira explains, smoothing his pant leg with a shaky hand. “I mean- except for Sae, of course. But that’s a given with her involvement in-“ a pause, “-legal issues.”

She brings delicate fingers to grip Akira’s laying in his lap. His hands are once again so warm, so hospitable, like arms outstretched wide to pull her into a hug. Haru knows that Akira misses him terribly, knows that he is purposely cutting himself off from Akira, knows that the relationship is strained, and Akira is hopeless at what to do. It’s always been like this, been like this for the two years he’s been incarcerated. Now contact is cut off completely.

Haru doesn’t know what she would do if one day she weren’t to wake up to a message with panda emoticons in the title. But knows that the person on the other side has lasted a week without a single reply. There’s guilt brewing inside of her, but this isn’t about her, it’s Akira’s turn to show a glimpse of the pain he’s going through. 

He squeezes her hand back, and the conversation once again dies off. It isn’t abrupt, but Haru knows not to pry. Any courteous queen would know not to overstep delicate subjects. Akira never does it for her, and she wouldn’t do the same to him. 

The rest of the evening is spent in blissful quiet.


	2. Makin' You Like Your Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was someone by his side.
> 
> Someone that left a bullet behind on his way out of her father’s palace.
> 
> Queens are not supposed to hold grudges, they aren’t supposed to see their subject and make a judgement of their character based on one action.
> 
> But it wasn’t one action, was it?

_"I know I can't make you younger_

_I can't stop life movin' onwards_

_I can't hide you from life's horrors_

_I'm not makin' you like your father"_

_-Melon and the Coconut, Glass Animals_

Sometimes she wonders what she would’ve done if she were in Akira’s shoes. Wonders how it felt when he stood in front of Maruki and told him that the dream world they were in wasn’t worth it. Wonders how if Akira had to watch his father repeatedly vomit black bile until his heart stopped, would he have changed his mind?

She remembers her father quietly tiptoeing into her room, clicking on the bedside lamp at 6 in the morning. Remembers him ruffling her hair as she woke up with a smile. It felt natural, it felt so _real_. It was everything she had hoped for and more, her father continuing the pursuit of his dream with her grandfather’s company, him making sure that his employees are working on a living wage and ethical hours, him letting her make decisions alongside him.

But when Akira sat her down with the others, her memory started getting fuzzy. It was as if mist had clouded over and she knew the people before her were supposed to be her best friends, but it felt twisted. It was like she was forgetting something integral to her entire being, that there was history here that she just couldn’t recall. And then when Akira spoke to them, everything shattered.

Her father was still there, but the feeling wasn’t. It was a madman’s attempt at her father, a broken psychologist trying to replicate her ideal reality. And once that fateful day in February passed, her father did along with it.

So, she asks herself again, would she make the same decision? If she stood before Maruki and he told her that if she were to just say “yes” then the foggy feeling would disappear and she would live a happy life with a loving and caring father, would she have told him no?

Akira always had a strong resolve, but even he must’ve seen how happy everyone was, that there were no drawbacks to Maruki giving everyone what they desired. However, it wasn’t just him.

There was someone by his side.

Someone that left a bullet behind on his way out of her father’s palace.

Queens are not supposed to hold grudges, they aren’t supposed to see their subject and make a judgement of their character based on one action.

But it wasn’t one action, was it?

The presence of Wakaba Isshiki in Maruki’s reality was proof of that statement. That this young man didn’t only impact her, but those she held dear to her. She didn’t experience Futaba’s palace herself, but the stories of a broken girl trapped in what seemed like her tomb… It resonated too strongly.

What Akira saw in him, she doesn’t understand, will probably never understand. She cannot comprehend how he was able to throw away the possibility of happiness for all their friends for one person.

Not only that, but this man, this _Goro Akechi_, had the audacity to be the sole factor in denying her and her friends an almost normal life. She had a glimpse of what might’ve been the happiest she had been in her life, and it was ripped away by an ungrateful man who only thought of himself.

She didn’t care that he didn’t want to be “controlled again”, he lost the right to make decisions for others when he orphaned two different people and only left behind the smoke of a gun.

He was given another chance at life, and he wanted to toss it into the garbage like yesterday’s leftovers? Did he know what she would’ve given to have her father have another chance like that? And then when her father was finally given that chance, he wanted to rip it away from her hands, leaving her grasping at coattails?

Then it all made sense when he waltz in with a testimony at Akira’s trial, having this huge plan to get him out of juvenile detention. He took away their ideal realities even while knowing he was still truly alive.

How ironic.

Haru pulls herself from her bed, desperately shaking her head to rid herself of these thoughts. The idea that she just deemed him unworthy of his own independence… It was just like her father. Just like how he forced her into an arranged marriage at the ripe age of seventeen, just like how he wanted her to be the quiet, polite heiress to a huge conglomerate.

Her lungs feel as if toxic gas has seeped into them, killing off healthy tissue and leaving behind decay. Panic is settling in like wildfire and despite going over the breathing exercises in her head again and again, she just can’t get her breath to stabilize.

Before she realizes what she’s doing, she’s on her feet and pacing her room. She tries to grasp for strands of her hair to tug on, something to remind her that she’s real, just to ground herself back to earth.

But everything is too different, her hair no longer hits her shoulders and flashbacks to the previous afternoon hit her like a tidal wave. Akira. Akira was here, he cut her hair, he helped her breathe, he held her hand at the table.

Haru sits back down, and instead of continuing her downward spiral, she just feels angry. Angry at herself for doubting Akira, because he knew the strife that they all experienced to get where they are now. Akira experienced their troubles personally and was the one person there to give them a hand on climbing that metaphorical ladder.

She pulls out her phone, fingers skimming across the screen and she absentmindedly types in her passcode. She thinks back to the warm hand on hers, thinks back to easy conversation over drinks in the dining room. This brings her confidence.

She thumbs over the panda emojis and finally presses down on the call button.

The building around her is small and cramped but comforting at the same time. The scent of coffee is thick in the air. It’s a less known spot but makes it all the more special to Haru whenever she visits the little coffee bar. The seats inside are big and cushioned much akin to those you’d see in a living room, the small woman sinks into them with ease.

The weather outside is blistery, small flurries spinning about against the grey at the skin, being a quite pretty sight if her eyes weren’t set on something else.

Haru is looking straight into dark auburn, proud and stern, yet filled with so much passion. These eyes are something she has looked into maybe a thousand time. Sometimes she stares on the same couch as the owner is deep in thought, rambling about her latest classes and the wildest laws she learned in class that day. Sometimes it’s when she’s discussing something with Akira at Leblanc, Haru sitting nearby as those eyes are growing louder as she becomes more fervent in their conversation.

At one point it was in a world of shadows, where Haru stared in awe as those eyes took down another shadow, wiping dark crimson dripping from her cheek from a lucky blow.

However, at this moment there is not that usual warmness that has always greeted Haru. There is something steely and cold inside them, swimming with questions that Haru isn’t sure she can answer.

What heir to the throne can’t even hold a conversation with the person she’s closest to? Her kingdom is destined to fall.

“Haru,” the eyes- no, Makoto, clears her throat. The brown-haired woman grips her mug with a sense of irritation. “I’m glad you called me here today, but”- a pause. She exhales through her nose with slight frustration. “You’ve ignored every text I’ve sent for the past week. I thought we were closer than that.”

Haru frowns slightly. Her gaze travels up from the auburn of Makoto’s eyes to her brown hair. When did… when did it get so short? Her hair is in a mature, yet youthfully messy pixie cut. It’s soft, the ends of her fringe nicely framing the sides of her face.

“Your hair,” she starts, lowering her mug to the darkly stained pine wood of the table. “It’s nice… When…?” Haru trails off, raising a hand to touch it, but slowly retreating after remembering the stressful conversation ahead of them.

Makoto glances to the side, where wisps of her brown hair tickle the tops of her cheek. “I texted you about joining me at the hairdresser earlier this week… Sis said it’d look more professional for internships.” Her cheeks begin to pinken ever-so slightly. “I see you didn’t need to come with me though,” she gestures towards the opposite’s own caramel locks.

“Akira helped me.” Haru explains a little too abruptly without realizing what that entailed.

“You talked to Akira?” Makoto seemed exasperated now, but instead of bitterness lingering in her eyes, her eyebrows knit together with a sense of sadness.

Haru trails her finger around the rim of her mug, watching the steam drift off her coffee, cream swirling lazily in the liquid. She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, letting a thick silence sit between them.

“I’m sorry,” she starts with a small sigh. “I truly have no excuses, Mako-chan. I-I… I’m struggling again. The nightmares are back, and I just feel…” Haru catches Makoto’s eyes again, pleased to see her face is relaxing with understanding.

Her voice drops down to barely above a whisper, eyeing the other patrons of the café uneasily. “Without my persona, without the Metaverse… I feel helpless.”

The other woman slowly brings her hand on top of Haru’s, stilling her finger around the mug. Makoto exhales deeply, using her other hand to pinch at her eyebrows before bringing both her hands back to grasp each other.

“Listen, Haru,” she begins, “It’s been over two years since we… Finished that. But I understand, I feel the emptiness where she used to be.” Makoto slowly lets her fingertips trace her middle of her chest. “But you can’t let helplessly keep you from contacting the ones who care for you.”

“I know.” Haru replies, the same mantra has been repeated to her constantly. Every single one of the former Phantom Thieves noticed the moment their precious “Noir” went rogue, her previously bubbly personality changing into something darker, something depressing.

But what did they expect? Once the fun of traipsing the Metaverse was taken from them by the fall of a false god, she was left to run an entire company with the help of a cabinet of adults who just doubted her. Takakura could only do so much to get a group of wealthy stakeholders to even listen to a young girl, freshly graduated.

She may not be the official CEO, but she still held so much stock that she might as well had a target pinned right on her back.

“You know Akira is stressed with school too,” Makoto continues, breaking Haru away from her thoughts. “I’m about to start an internship with a local attorney office. My coursework will slow down, I can visit you more often. I promise.”

“Mako-chan,” Haru becomes riddled with guilt, she can’t have Makoto turn this around, she shouldn’t be feeling at fault for another one of Haru’s moodswings and misgivings about herself.

“Listen, I like seeing you. I like, and _miss_, spending time with you, Haru.” Makoto is so earnest it’s almost painful. Haru yearns to keep her to herself, to hang out in each other’s rooms again, reading teen magazines like they’re still third years dreaming about graduation, discussing the latest cases in Mementos.

“So let’s make this a thing, okay? Once a week, anywhere we want. It could be Leblanc for all I care,” Makoto’s sad eyes warm up again, a smile creeping onto her lips. “Just don’t ignore my texts, alright?”

Haru nods, feeling lighter. Lighter than she’s felt in a long time. She procrastinated so much on just replying to Makoto’s messages that it just felt like everything was piling up, like she couldn’t respond once without everything falling apart.

But now, everything was fine. Makoto deserved so much more than this, her heart was so kind, and her head so level. Haru couldn’t repay her even if she tried her entire life.

They finish their coffees, drifting easily after that into conversation about university. Makoto begins talking with her hands, excitedly beginning to dive into her hopes of working with a local attorney. She mentions how she’s taking a year between her senior year of university for this internship, but it’ll help in the long run.

The entire time, Haru sits in awe, seeing the passion return to her dear friend in waves. University has brought out so much in her, giving her a newfound confidence that Haru had only seen while they worked in the Metaverse.

The hair suits her, showing a rebellious side but still seemingly professional. It reminds her so much of Queen that it almost hurts, the sharp angles of her pixie cut reminiscent of the spikes on her Metaverse shoulder pads. She truly looks her age, no longer the insecure third year being told down by everyone around her.

Law always suits her, much more than her previous goal of going into the police force. But things change.

Especially when the very police force you vowed to change decide to beat your best friend black and blue.

They lose track of time, both deeply invested in their conversation, that when the clock chimes for the new hour, they both jump.

“Oh dear,” Haru pushes her mug to the middle of the table, slowly rising from the chair. “Closing time already, I suppose.” She slips easily into the same politeness she’s been taught as an heiress.

Makoto stands to her feet as well, placing a few extra yen on the table, Haru supposes it’s for letting them sit for so long, taking up valuable spaces in the coffee bar.

“I could’ve spent all day there,” the brunette stretches, reaching her arms up.

She’s slender, yet lean. Haru notices the muscles in her arm as she pulls on a thick, grey peacoat. Taking up boxing a year back has done her well, keeping her in the same shape she was when they were thieves, maybe even better.

“You ah-“ Haru clears her throat in the crook of her elbow, “you look really good. I mean- very athletic!” She corrects herself, trying to hide the red in her face by turning to grab her own coat.

Makoto looks sheepishly at herself. “Oh? Yeah, I guess they’ve been pushing me harder at the gym. It’s nice though, good distraction from school and work.” She smiles back up at Haru, who is hurriedly trying to make her way towards the door.

They say their goodbyes, and as Makoto walks towards the station, a black car drives up for Haru on the next street down.

She greets her chauffeur and settles in the back, slumping her chin against her hand as she thinks of any other way she could’ve complimented Makoto. As her mind drifts back to her friend, she also thinks of what she was imagining earlier. The ideas of how she would’ve acted in Akira’s place with Maruki.

How would Makoto have acted?

Haru starts to slip back into her mind again, placing herself into her dearest friend’s shoes. Makoto had lost her father long before Haru, being placed into the care of her sister during her most formative years. The heiress may have been orphaned at the age of seventeen, but she still got to have him from junior high onward, even if he was pinning her into an arranged marriage.

But Maruki brought back Makoto, gave her the family she always desired.

However, this isn’t something up for debate. Haru knows without a doubt in her heart that Makoto would’ve gone against Maruki’s reality. She saw firsthand how she reacted when Akira shattered the veil in front of their eyes. She was so angry, so distraught about how this one man tricked them into believing lies.

Since becoming Queen, Makoto was full of faith in her own moral code, she knew what was right and was unwavering.

Haru wishes she were just as strong.

Valentine’s day after the fall of a false god and Maruki was nearly perfect, or it was supposed to be hypothetically.

Akira had constantly been coming up to her garden, chatting with her, being an easy conversation partner and giving great advice about her woes with Takakura. Overtime, something else bloomed.

She began blushing at his small compliments towards her, she would arrive sooner than the others to Leblanc to discuss the newest infiltration plans for Shido’s palace, he would make sure to walk her back to the station whenever she wasn’t particularly wanting her chauffeur to pick her up. Maybe it was just to satisfy her desire to spend more time with him.

Then came his involvement in absolving her arranged marriage with Sugimura, he was always there to back her up, always there to protect against his abuse. Akechi would’ve called it Akira’s “hero complex”, but at the time Haru saw it as the first time someone stood up for her.

She had lived most of her high school life as a shy, reserved girl, forced to keep her voice down to keep stakeholders happy. She was oblivious to the neglect that her father’s workers endured, yet there was always something bubbling deep inside her, scraping at her self-conscience saying “there’s something wrong here”.

But she couldn’t bring herself to say a single word, she would just smile and shake hands with men who looked her up and down like she was a prize for their son’s. Haru wasn’t even her own person, she was a woman whom marrying would give you the keys to the kingdom: a large amount of stock and control in a multimillion-dollar business.

Her father knew this, but did he care? No, but maybe years back, he would’ve. But Haru had known for a long time he was a shell of his former self, run completely with greed, even if she hoped there was a fragment of his past left in him. Maybe if she just went along with all his demands, she could reach it?

Despite all that, Akira didn’t see her like the others did. She wasn’t a suitor in his eyes, just a close friend who had actual talent, who was integral in their part of saving the world from adults who just wanted to watch it burn.

Every time he talked, his words dripped with conviction, with confidence that what they were doing was right, even when it eventually led to the demise of her own father. That conviction was what kept her going even after that fateful day, for who could go against passion like that?

Their friendship kept building up, until when she waited at Leblanc earlier than the others, Akira joined her at the booth instead. When she walked to the station after a long day in Mementos, the barest hint of his hand grazed hers. His smiles grew warmer, eyes softer.

She never had this type of attention before, never had someone placed all their time with her, even when the end of the world was near.

But that’s all it was. Attention.

This became clear when they were trapped on the other side of the boiler room, a giant steel wall blocking them from the culprit of her father’s murder. Akira was banging against the metal with such fervor that she hadn’t seen before, up until the moment where Akechi begged them to steal Shido, his father’s, heart in his stead.

After that, it felt like radio silence between them. Akira had the guts to hold her hand, but there was no warmth in the touch like she had seen in his smiles the weeks before. But there were words she couldn’t bring herself to say, for even though she noticed the dispassion, the attention she never had received before was what she craved.

After Maruki’s fall and Akira’s small sentence in juvenile detention, they sat apart from each other in a lavish restaurant, the view before them astonishing to look at. Even an heiress could appreciate such an extravagant venue.

There was a heaviness between them, an unspoken conversation that had to happen, but neither one of them had the nerve to start it. The fateful testimony was fresh in Haru’s head, as she and the other thieves had sat there in the audience of the trial, hoping for Akira’s innocence to be proven after all the work and petitioning they had gone through.

But the true way Akira’s innocence was proven was through that very testimony, even if it meant incarcerating the very person who gave it. A person they had thought was dead, and Haru had hoped was long gone.

Besides that, there was another factor in what was happening between them. This romance was friendship mistaken for so much more, as Haru had never experienced something so wholesome, something where the person would give anything to make sure you were happy.

She craved attention, craved someone’s eyes on her in a pure way, when everyone else saw her as a fine cut of meat in a butcher shop. Akira gave that to her, but in a way that didn’t make her feel love, but appreciation.

But he wasn’t the only one, for over time, she grew closer to her Queen. The one that she didn’t dare waste time addressing in a casual, friendly manner. It was her Mako-chan, the one who others were intimidated by due to her status as school council president, the one others feared due to her prowess in the Metaverse.

There was a softness there, but no hero complex, no feeling like Haru needed to be saved or cared for in fear of her being broken by the bigwigs around her. She appreciated Akira for that, but also wanted something where she was seen as an equal.

Makoto gave her that.

So on that night, while they gazed upon Tokyo, sipping on sparkling water as live music played softly around them, Haru cleared her throat and gave Akira a sad, knowing smile.

“I don’t think this is working for either of us.”

Akira returned her smile, returning his gaze back to the view of the city, eyes reflecting the lights of the buildings around them. His sigh was gentle, and he placed his hand on hers, slowly nodding.

“I think we’ve both known from the start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for waiting like 10 months between updates,,, I promise I'm planning on actually keeping up this time. Comments are super appreciated! I'd love to know how I'm doing writing this :)


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